There is a stone there, That whoever kisses, Oh! he never misses To grow eloquent. 'Tis he may clamber To a lady's chamber Or become a member Of Parliament.

With deep affection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells.

Out of Ireland have we come.
Great hatred, little room,
Maimed us at the start.
I carry from my mother's womb
A fanatic heart.

We . . . are no petty people. We are one of the great stocks of Burke; we are the people of Swift, the people of Emmet, the people of Parnell. We have created most of the modern literature of this country. We have created the best of its political intelligence.

If one could only teach the English how to talk, and the Irish how to listen, society would be quite civilized.

Whether on the scaffold high Or on the battle-field we die, Oh, what matter, when for Erin dear we fall.